


Glad I Found You On The Way

by risingtides



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2014-2015 OHL Season, Alcohol, Christmas Party, Erie Otters, M/M, Underage Drinking, two stupid 17 year old boys oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 19:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17189093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/risingtides/pseuds/risingtides
Summary: Dylan hates Ugly Sweater parties, but is dragged nonetheless by his roommate.Oh, and his star Captain will be there. No big deal.





	Glad I Found You On The Way

**Author's Note:**

> this completely spiraled out of control and now it is this. also i suck at proofreading so i apologize for any inconsistencies or typos or what not. i am a lazy person sometimes. enjoy my loves x
> 
> talk hockey with me on tumblr: hartsytrash

Dylan never was a fan of ugly sweater parties.

The idea of going out of your way to purchase an ugly sweater - that was manufactured by some company to _be_ ugly but was not created with pure intentions in trying to be fashionable but instead turning out horrific – to be worn once a year then thrown in the back of a closet after said party, was not his first idea for a holiday-themed party.

The thought of actually hanging out with McDavid beyond the rink was intimidating too.

He was essentially Hockey Jesus, soon-to-be NHL first-overall pick, which often overshadowed everyone else on the team but no one seemed to mind too much, so Dylan wouldn’t mind unless it actually affected him. He knew he was going to get drafted first round, he wasn’t stupid, he knew he was good and has read all the scouting reports, but Connor seemed to be lightyears ahead of everyone else.

So, excuse Dylan for being nervous.

Regardless, he still found himself in DeBrincat’s closet before the party that evening, shuffling through his obscene collection of holiday wear. He was new to the team and new to being Alex’s roommate. They got along well so far, mostly just Dylan getting used to living around the boisterous character of Alex.

“Really, dude, what do you need a Hanukkah sweater for? You’re not even Jewish!” Dylan holds up a blue stitched sweater with a menorah on it with the caption ‘It’s Lit’ which makes the forward cringe before throwing it back in the bin (yes, the bin) of sweaters he was rummaging through.

Alex shrugs, cracking open a beer as he watched his teammate rummage through his sweaters. “Hey, you never know man,” is the only explanation he has to offer before proceeding to chug half of the freshly opened beer. Dylan had already agreed to be the designated driver, only because Alex begged him.

Dylan rolls his eyes as he continues to find one that isn’t completely cringeworthy. He eventually settles on one he finds rather nice, if that was such a word for it: a red one with a gingerbread man on it that said “Bite Me”. It was the least corny of the bunch, so he figured he wouldn’t feel totally embarrassed wearing it.

“Good choice, my friend, wonderful choice,” Alex calls from his seat, already cracking a second beer that Dylan hadn’t even noticed he got up to get, “Now throw that shit on and let’s freakin’ go! All the guys are there already, Strome!”

With the roll of his eyes, Dylan goes back to his own room to change into a nicer pair of jeans and the sweater, staring at himself in the mirror once he’s dressed. Alright, he lied, the sweater still makes him feel cringey. He can feel the butterflies in his stomach at the thought of hanging out with the team, hanging out with Connor because, lets face it, he’s insane at hockey and Dylan is just a rookie who can’t help but feel inferior to him despite his own talents.

He grabbed his keys and called for Alex so they could leave, wanting to just get there and hope some of his tension would dissolve upon arrival.

-

Alex decides on a sweater with two polar bears fucking that reads “Merry fucking Christmas” and Dylan wouldn’t expect anything less obscene from his roommate.

He parks outside the house they’re supposed to be at – he thinks he heard Alex say it was Betz’s place – shoving his keys in his pocket after locking the car, walking up to the front door and allowing Alex to enter the two of them into the house. Loud rap music was playing elsewhere, so they followed the sound until the reached a doorway leading to the basement.

“Looks like the party’s down here!” Alex exclaims before descending with Dylan in tow, glancing around as they enter the basements and faces start to come into view. He notices Travis with a few other guys who seem like they’re just friends from around here, at least Dylan doesn’t recognize them. Before he can look around to see who else is here, Betz, dressed in a sweater with penguins on it, is shoving a cup into each of their hands as a greeting.

“Glad you guys could make!” he shouts over the music blaring from the speakers right behind him at the foot of the steps, grinning wildly and Dylan could tell he was already drunk. He glances down into the cup in his hand before attempting to hand it back to Dylan, shouting how he was the designated driver, but Betz just shook his head.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Strome, you better be drinking! Just crash here, you idiot!” Nick insists, pushing the cup back towards his chest. He then looks to Alex for the go-ahead but he’s already downing his own cup. Without much of a second thought, Dylan takes a few sips from his cup which earns a cheer from the two boys.

“Atta boy, new kid! Show us how the young kids do it!” Alex pats him on the back with a laugh, as if he were years older than him, earning a quiet laugh from Dylan as well. Betz and Alex wander off together to play pong in a separate area of the roomy basement, leaving Dylan alone as he nods his head to the rap music.

He takes the time to nurse the beer in his cup and make his own rounds, saying hello to some teammates and dancing to the music, rapping along to the songs he knew. Most of the conversation revolved around everyone’s holiday sweaters or hockey, sometimes interrupted by a particular rap song or throwback that everyone would just start screaming.

It was more fun than Dylan had anticipated, and within an hour or two he was feeling the buzz of the beer as his cup had been repeatedly filled up by the older guys on the team without him having to go to the keg himself. He had even gotten to play a few rounds of pong, which turns out he’s not half bad at. He’s near the back of the basement talking to Dermott when there’s a tap on his shoulder.

“Could you take a picture for me real quick?” a guy asks Dylan in the middle of his conversation. When he looks, Dylan knows he recognizes the guy, but assumes he isn’t on the team because he must have missed the memo to wear a Holiday sweater. Instead, he’s clad in a plain white tee and a green baseball hat, which he guessed was somewhat festive.

“Uh, sure, yeah,” Dylan takes the phone from the guy’s hand and waits until the move in front of the wallpaper background – he still can’t believe Betz set up wallpaper for photo ops – and snaps the picture of the mysterious man and Baptiste. It’s on Snapchat, so he takes the singular picture before handing it back to the non-festive guy.

“Thanks dude, it’s good to see you.” The same guy says, pulling Dylan in for a hug, which confuses him as he simply reciprocates the hug, unsure of why they’re being so intimate until he peaks under his hat and he nearly shits himself.

McDavid.

Like, _Connor_ McDavid.

Like, soon-to-be first overall draft pick in the NHL draft, Connor McDavid.

Dylan directs his eye contact back to Connor, cheeks hot, a strong arm still around his waist which is feels a little more than friendly but Dylan might just be maybe, definitely, overthinking this encounter. He feels idiotic for not realizing it sooner, but it was dark in the basement, save for a few strings of lights hanging off the railing.

“Nice to finally get talking with you, Strome, really.” Connor smiles at the boy, taking a moment to sip whatever is in his cup. He’s guessing it’s not beer based on the fact his lips and tongue were tinted red from whatever juice was in his cup. Dylan thinks he feels sweat forming at his hairline. The hand on his back feels red-hot but he doesn’t move from the singeing touch, trying to relax into it but _damn it_ he looks so good and Dylan has totally definitely _not_ been crushing on him or making googly eyes at him during practice and most _definitely not_ thinking about Connor when he’s jacking off in the shower but, like he said, none of that was true. At all. “You having fun?”

“I am!” Dylan shouts a little too excitedly over the music, “It’s been a while since I’ve been to a party,” Dylan goes on, going to glance at Baptiste until he realizes he has scurried away, leaving the two of them alone. He glances around at the rest of the people at the party, all dressed in holiday attire, before looking back at Connor, “You know you’re the only one not dressed for the occasion, right?”

Connor looks down at his own plain white t-shirt before putting his hands up in defense. “Hey, look, I didn’t have one so I figured I would rock the green hat to at least show some holiday cheer, alright?” he jokes, pointing to that same hat on his head. Dylan nods, knowing his answer is probably bullshit, but he’s too drunk to really care. He takes another large gulp of his beer, wanting to feel it more because, goddammit, he was supposed to be the designated driver but that’s out the window so why not get properly fucked up?

“Right, leave it Mr. Cool to be the only one not wearing a sweater.” Dylan rolls his eyes.

Connor raises an eyebrow, a soft laugh escaping his throat. “Bite me, Strome,” and Dylan doesn’t know if he’s making a joke of his own or if he’s ripping off his sweater, but nonetheless he glances down at his sweater, narrowing his gaze at Connor. He watches him take a sip of his own concoction, making a face when the alcohol hits a little too hard – Dylan guesses it’s a rather strong mix.

“You’re telling me you had _no_ Christmas sweaters and _no one_ to borrow from? I find that just absurd,” Dylan goes on, finishing his beer after the last syllable, “This isn’t even mine, it’s DeBrincat’s because I freakin’ hate ugly Christmas sweater parties!”

Connor feigns shock, hand to his chest and mouth hanging open and all. “How can you hate Christmas sweaters? Is that even something worth hating?”

By this point, Dylan has turned around to walk towards the keg to fill up, situated in the corner where the most people are. Connor follows, just _dying_ to hear his explanation. He looks back to his teammate while filling up, “Like, why go out and buy a stupid sweater to wear once a year for a stupid party? Instead I could be comfy and totally not sweating like I am right now.” He explains, dropping the spout and taking a sip, moving to another spot in the basement where he can breathe. He leans against the wall next to the stairs, Connor in front of him, Dylan thinking about how good he looks in his jeans and how is shirt is now a bit sheer from his sweat.

“So then why did you wear one if you hate it like you say you do?”

“Because it’s weird to be the only one not wearing one.” Dylan gives an exaggerated cough because that’s exactly what Connor did.

“Well you wouldn’t have been the only one since I didn’t wear one.” Connor notes, tilting his cup towards him before taking another sip. Dylan rolls his eyes.

“You got me on that one there, McDavid,” he shouts over the music, leaning his head back against the wall, shutting his eyes momentarily as he let the music wash over his body, invading his clouded brain. He felt amazing; he couldn’t remember the last time he had gotten wasted and it was so nice to feel relaxed, especially around his new team who he felt so uptight around in his first few weeks here.

His thoughts are interrupted by loud cheering. Looking past Connor, Dylan sees Alex doing a keg stand, supported by two more of his teammates. He cheers from where he’s standing a few feet away, laughing as they nearly drop him on top of the keg on the way down. Connor turns back around, grinning at Dylan who’s still recovering from his fit of laughter. He’s not so sure if he’s smiling because of Alex’s antics or Dylan but seeing those pearly whites made Dylan want to melt into the floor.

“God, it’s so fucking _hot_ down here!” Dylan shouts, fanning himself with his free hand, glancing at Connor in his comfortable t-shirt. He plucks it with that same hand, pulling the fabric away from his abdomen, “I should’ve just worn this, you’re a genius, McDavid.”

Connor laughs again, leaning forward so his lips were inches from Dylan’s ear. His breathing hitches slightly; he comes down so far that he thinks Connor’s going to kiss him. He’s ambiguous about it.

“Wanna get some fresh air? It feels good outside,” Connor suggests, pulling back quickly. Dylan is already nodding, begging for freedom from the heat of the confined space. Connor grabs Dylan’s hand to guide him through the sea of people, up the steps, and outside. A few stragglers were upstairs in the living room and kitchen, talking quietly, but more were outside, trying to rid themselves of the heat with the cold winter air. Betz was now outside, smoking a blunt, trying to get the stragglers back inside so that they don’t look too suspicious with ten people huddles together outside on a Saturday night. The last thing they needed was having the cops called and then having to explain that one to Coach.

The moment they step outside and the cool air hits Dylan’s face, he breathes a sigh of relief, wiping his forehead with his sweater sleeve. His breath hangs in the air, twirling around itself before disappearing. He sips his beer, relieved.

“Better?” Connor laughs, arms crossed now in an attempt to keep himself warm since he lacked the thick sweater everyone else adorned. Dylan nodded before rubbing his own sleeve against Connor’s arm to try and help generate some heat, feeling bad that he dragged him outside (even if it was his idea).

“Now don’t you wish you were a little more festive?” The forward teases. They stand outside for a few more minutes, huddled close together to retain at least some heat from inside but Dylan didn’t mind; Connor’s hand was on his low back again, their torsos pressed together intimately. They stand together in a comfortable silence, surveying the scene around them, Dylan stealing glances of Connor because he looks so goddamn good, scruff along his cheeks and jaw that he would love to bite at. He knows he’s drunk and Connor probably is too and that the only reason the older guy is this close to him is because they’re teammates and its cold outside, but it doesn’t keep him from wanting Connor to maybe, sort of, fuck his brains out.

Betz eventually shares the blunt with them and maybe they take a few hits to warm their insides too before Connor suggests moving things back inside. This time, he wraps his arm around Dylan’s shoulders to guide them back into the house. His cheeks grow red, and not from the cold air on his face.

This time, Dylan chooses to lead the way once the warm air hits them, holding on to Connor’s hand firmly as he passes the entryway downstairs and Connor doesn’t say a word, still following him. He’s on a mission, a new found one with his liquid confidence: to steal a kiss from Connor McDavid. He’s rather drunk now and he can hear the loud sounds from the basement but doesn’t want to go back down just yet, more intrigued in “exploring” the rest of the house. There was a gate set up to block people from the living room, but he simply steps over it and enters the dark room with Connor behind him, still holding on tight.

“It feels way better up here.” Dylan comments absentmindedly, running his hands over furniture and picture frames before turning around to look at Connor who was suddenly, like, insanely close to him. Connor’s back is against the wall, next to the TV stand, out of sight and still in the dark. He can still make out the outline of his lips and, if Connor can meet his eyes, his own pair are staring at his pair suggestively.

The next thing he knows, Connor is grabbing his jaw and pulling him in for a messy, drunken kiss, tongue immediately pressing to his lips to get him to open up. Dylan doesn’t know if he should be alarmed, shocked, excited, or all three, but he doesn’t know what else to do except kiss him back, hands cradling either side of his face as he tries to pull him in closer, get his tongue deeper into his mouth.

He feels a hand move down to grab his waist, pulling their bodies closer together in the dark of the living room. Dylan leans into the touch, closer to Connor’s body if that were humanely possible. The other man pulls his mouth away to press kisses all over Dylan’s neck and he laughs as he throws his head back to give Connor more room, in utter bliss as he feels the scratch of his beard against his sensitive skin, shivering in delight. Music is flowing up from the basement to fill the space around them, blasting so loud he wonders how anyone can ever hear themselves think.

_Me and my bitch I swear we like the same sex_

_Fuck with all my chains on, let’s have chain sex_

The words fill Dylan’s ears and the beat fills his veins as he can feel the floor moving beneath them. His eyes are still shut, senses in overload, everything moving behind his eyes, and it thinks this might be a moment he wants to screencap and hold on to forever. It’s something out of a movie.

“Upstairs, yeah?” Dylan suggests and Connor is nodding once he processes exactly what he’s implying. Another entrance into the living room leads up the stairs and Connor is dragging Dylan up those stairs as he laughs, ignoring any looks he gets from his teammates. For all they know, the two are just exploring the house without Betz’s knowledge. And, even if everyone knows he’s about to get fucked, who the hell cares? No big deal, right?

They push a door open and there’s no one inside, just a bed and some furniture with posters hanging on the wall, along with a few jersies, trophies, and a sweet fish tank. It’s Betz’s room. Dylan would apologize later.

The lights stay off as they shut and lock the door behind them, Dylan moving to sit on the bed first while waiting for Connor to join him. He smiles that wide, stupid grin and kisses Dylan, sweeter this time, gently pushing his tongue past his lips and Dylan happily allowing him. His hand’s slide under his teammate’s shirt, running his hands over Dylan’s chest and shoulders before the brunette decides to just get rid of it, doing the same to Connor who’s now straddling him.

“You are so fuckin’ cute, you know that?” Connor confesses, still sitting up on Dylan’s hips, causing the other boy to kneel up on his elbows. He’s facing the window so there’s a dull light coming in due to the Christmas lights and Dylan can’t believe that Connor McDavid is on top of him right now, illuminated in the glow of the lights and complimenting him. He’s grateful that it’s dark so he can’t see the flush of his cheeks as Connor leans back down for a kiss, hands running along his strong shoulders, squeezing the flesh there as his lips move downward, kissing on his neck again.

“Fuck, please fuck me, fuck,” Dylan slips out as Connor sucks a bruise on to his collar bone, unashamed as he looks Connor in the eye again and he’s nodding, needing little convincing, but puts a finger up to say ‘hold on’ as he hooks his fingers into his jeans and shoves them down his legs.

Dylan does the rest of the work, kicking off his jeans and then his boxers follow. Connor gives him a few strokes as his cock continues to harden, kissing the gentle skin of his inner thighs and _fuck_ he thinks he could lose it right there, his beard scratching against his sensitive skin but only doing more to electrify him under his hand. Then Connor is dipping his head down to take him in, working the lower half of his shaft with his hand while sucking the top, tongue swirling around the head, holding his other hand down on his hips to keep them from bucking up.

The music from downstairs is louder now, underneath them on the first floor, thrumming through Dylan’s veins as he gawks at Connor, who was sucking him down whole in a lewd manner, the brunette throwing his head back against the pillow as his eyes rolled back. His mind was hazy and his vision was getting crossed but if he knew one thing it was that Connor was going to make him cum any minute.

That’s when he pops off him, swooping back up for a quick make out and to suck another bruise onto his neck, one that the guys would see for a week and torture him about but if it was from Connor, he definitely wouldn’t mind.

“Please, Con, fuck,” Dylan mewls, fingers grasping the sheets beneath him for dear life.

All Connor does is hum in response around his cock and Dylan wants to kick him so bad. He watches Connor slip a hand into his own jeans, jerking himself lazily as he worked Dylan’s cock in his mouth and then he’s coming, Connor swallowing down every bit save for one lone drop on the corner of his mouth. It’s dripping down, he can feel it, but he reaches up to kiss Dylan instead, letting their spit and his own cum combine.

Dylan is humming with satisfaction against Connor’s mouth, reveling in every taste of his own now-salty saliva. “Wanna ride you,” he murmurs thickly, opening his eyes as their foreheads are pressed together.

Connor swallows hard, reaching into his back-pocket to grab the condom and lube he had been oh-so prepared with before sliding off his own pants as he pressed sweet kisses to Dylan’s lips. He kicks his sneakers off and shucks off his pants and underwear in one swoop and when he gets back on the bed, Dylan is kneeling to face him when he grabs Connor’s cock, jerking him slowly a few times with a smirk on his face, jaw hanging open as he watched Connor’s face before kissing him again, all tongue and teeth.

When he pulls back, lips just centimeters apart, Connor has this concerned look on his face which makes Dylan frown, “What’s wrong?” he murmurs, words sticking together like caramel in his drunken state.

“I just, are you sure about this? I mean, I’m drunk, you’re drunk,” he pauses, gesturing to each of them and Dylan sighs, leaning his forehead against Connor’s.

“Drunk or sober,” Dylan is quiet, eyes dancing, unable to focus on anything for too long, “I want you, I just,” he pauses to burp because, shit beer really fills you up, earning a gorgeous laugh from the blonde, “Haven’t been able to tell you how much I fucking like you until now because I’m drunk and I don’t really know what words are gonna come out of my mouth,” he adds with a laugh, leaning back to get a better look at Connor’s face. “You’re a freakin’ stunner, you’re gorgeous, you’re… a stud at hockey, like, I can’t even _believe_ ,” and he knows he’s rambling but he can’t stop, until Connor is pressing another kiss to his lips, shutting him up.

“You’re so cute when you’re talking nonsense,” the blonde whispers, “Also, your hand is still on my dick.”

Dylan lets out a boisterous laugh, leaning forward to let his face fall into his neck, sound reverberating off his skin, “Would you just fuck me now?” he asks bluntly, already jumping off the previous subject.

Connor nods, pressing a chaste kiss to his neck before rolling off to the side. He rips the condom open, rolling it on his own hard cock before Dylan climbs on top of him, straddling his hips. He rips the second packet open, coating his fingers, and slipping them underneath Dylan’s ass to start stretching him open. The boy mewled from above him as he worked him open, grinding down on his fingers with his hands splayed on his chest for support, eyes glazed over.

“Ready?” Connor asks, removing his fingers and lining himself up with Dylan as he rose up off his thighs, nodding excitedly before sinking down slowly, emitting a low, filthy groan as he did so, sitting down all the way on Connor’s cock until he was completely full with him. He threw his head back, the sensation overbearing, feeling Connor’s eyes on him as he put on a show.

“Look so good, Dyl, full of my cock,” he groans as Dylan starts to grind back and forth on it, the constant sensation on his prostate sending electricity down his spine, the bravado he feels in his drunken state so opposite to his normal personality that it feels entirely foreign to him. He can hear is conscience screaming from far away about how he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t let Connor McDavid into his life like _this_ , but how could that be true when he felt this good, when he was unraveling him inch by inch?

“Full of your cock, all for me,” Dylan moans as he starts moving up and down, bouncing on Connor’s cock and watching his jaw go slack as he does so, hands gripping his waist. A hand from the blonde moves to his cock, jerking him at a quick pace. He moves his hands to rest on either side of Connor’s head as he grinds down on him, wiggling his hips up and back to keep the pressure on his prostate constant, sending ripples through his nerves.

He moves faster, like he’s already nearing his orgasm. Connor grips him even harder as he thrusts up to meet Dylan, catching him by surprise and he’s coming hard, entire body shuddering as he cries out, Connor punctuating his orgasm with another hard thrust, causing him to cry out again as he sends white streaks onto his stomach and chest, collapsing over on top of him.

“Fuck, Con,” he whines as Connor keeps thrusting into his sensitive body, coming a few strokes afterwards, groaning into Dylan’s ear as he stays nestled while he comes down, breathing hard into his shoulder before biting down to muffle his own moans. The brunette sits back up to pull himself off Connor after a few moments, rolling over next to him, still catching his breath. He thinks he can still see fireworks behind his eyelids, still recovering from his orgasm, the occasional shudder hitting him as he continues his descent back to Earth. Connor tosses the condom in a nearby trashcan for Betz to find later, unfortunately.

The two lay in silence, staring at the ceiling, the music still flooding into the room from below.

_Out of nowhere, you came here to stay the night_

_In the nighttime_

“I’m pretty sure Debrincat has the aux,” Connor is the first to break the silence and Dylan laughs, nodding in agreement.

“Americans and their rap,” the brunette comments, running a hand through his sweaty hair, fingers still shaking, eyes still spinning in his head.

The silence settles back over them, still laying side by side. Connor is the first to move, placing an arm around Dylan to bring him closer.

Dylan speaks first this time, “You didn’t have to actually bite me you know, just because my sweater said so,” Which earns a laugh from the boy beside him, “And we’ve both still got my cum on us you know,” he giggles, but not moving to do anything about it.

Connor shrugs. “Don’t wanna move.”

Dylan keeps laughing. “Don’t think I _can_ move.”

Connor smirks, turning his head to look at him. “From me or from every other substance you’ve put in your body tonight?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

Dylan rolls his eyes, shoving him playfully in the chest. “Probably from everything.” He slurs, shutting his eyes again as Connor laughs, his ego fueled just a little bit.

They’re interrupted by a loud banging at the door.

“Who the _fuck_ is in there? I swear to GOD if you are fucking in my bed I am NOT gonna be a happy camper, I’ll tell you _that_!” shouts Betz from the door and Dylan collapses into a fit of laughter once again, causing Betz to knock again on the door, “Strome, what the fuck is that _you_? Oh, you are so dead.”

Which only causes him to laugh harder, turning into Connor’s chest and the blonde can’t help but chuckle as well, trying to shush Dylan but failing miserably.

“Guess we need to get up, huh?” Connor murmurs, kissing the top of his head and Dylan is whining again, still staying under the covers as Betz continues to air his grievances outside the door, Connor sitting up now.

“Do we have to?” Dylan pushes his bottom lip out, giving Connor the puppy-dog look and he wants to stay so badly, but he would rather not face the wrath of Betz even more than he already will for christening his bed.

“I wish we didn’t but,” Connor sighs, looking to the door, “Betz sounds pretty pissed.”

Dylan sighs, sitting up, putting his forehead against Connor’s shoulder, pausing. Suddenly the silence feels threatening to him. “Can you promise me something?” he’s quiet now, nerves creeping up on him.

“What’s that?” Connor whispers, leaning forehead to press another kiss to his head.

“That,” he takes a deep breath, trying to focus on what he wants to say, “That this won’t change anything. If you decide tomorrow morning that, you know, this isn’t what you want. _I’m_ not what you want.” He finishes, his feelings conspicuous.

Connor frowns, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “It won’t, Strome, I promise.” He tilts his chin up, pressing a sweet kiss to his mouth. “We’ll figure it out.”

Dylan feels better, especially when Connor kisses him. He smiles, eyes still swimming, unable to focus, but he knows he feels okay when his eyes are on him.

-

When they emerge from the room a few minutes later, cleaned up and dressed again, Betz is shouting nonsense at Strome, but upon seeing his Captain, he’s dumbfounded, unable to form any coherent thought. He spots the hickies on Dylan’s neck and can put two and two together, but he’s too drunk to do anything with that information. DeBrincat is beside him to shout in his place, whistling as they walk out. “Way to score, Strome, that’s my fucking roommate!” he shouts loud enough for the entire house to hear and Dylan just laughs as Connor pulls him into a close hug, squeezing his shoulder.

And if they end up sharing the couch in the living room together when the party ends, no one mentions it.

And if Dylan is woken up the next morning by Connor’s gentle kisses to his back, he doesn’t mind, even if he does have a massive hangover.

And when Dylan offers to drive Connor back to his place - Alex doesn’t mind getting a ride back with someone else - and they take a pit stop at Tim Horton’s to grab some much-needed hangover food, he may or may not think of it as a first date (even when Connor ends up paying for his food).

And when they sit and talk for an hour about things beyond hockey, Dylan thinks he doesn’t find Connor so intimidating, so out-of-reach anymore, not when he’s right here in front of him with a warm coffee in one hand and Dylan’s hand in the other under the table.

So, maybe Dylan didn’t hate Christmas sweater parties as much.

 

 


End file.
